


Beware the Jabberwock

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Series: In Asking Riddles That Have No Answers [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arthurian, Dark Harry Potter, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Ghosts, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Headcanon, Horcruxes, M/M, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Necromancer Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pagan Festivals, Pagan Holidays, Paganism, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Peverell Lineage, Samhain, Sidhe, Solstices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11538876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: “The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!…The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame—”― Lewis Carroll, JabberwockyHattie makes conversation with a beast.She gives said beast an offer……that he can’t refuse.





	1. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But to which Beast do we refer?

It was the dead of night, and chillingly quiet in the office of Quirinus Quirrell. A single flame sputtered and writhed atop the wick of a dripping candlestick. The shadows watched eagerly, dancing along the walls and across the floors, growing and shrinking with the flickering candlelight. Nothing was said between the two: Hattie, with her lips forced into a grim smile, waiting; and Quirinus Quirrell, doggedly blank-faced.

She would not be the first to speak. No, Hattie would wait.

The silence festered, and around her throat, Keraunos squirmed. Hazily, the snake tasted the air, then settled against her neck once more. The night had only just begun, and morn was a long way away.

Hattie waited, because she knew she would have what she wanted.

“Henrietta… Potter,” spoke a soft, sibilant voice. The wait was over. Quirrell’s face twitched, and his mouth pulled into a grimace, but Hattie payed him no mind.

“Voldemort,” she said, grin reminiscent to a Cheshire cat’s – wide, gleaming, and almost the only thing that could be seen within the darkness that fell upon her.

“Master,” whimpered Quirrell, to which Voldemort snapped a sharp _quiet!_ The man settled, even with the pain growing prominent in his features. Abiding a whispered command, Quirrell turned away from Hattie, reaching behind himself to undo the wrappings of his turban. Each repealed strap of fabric brought the simmering heat closer to the surface, until it was bursting with a searing explosion of fire.

Voldemort’s visage came into view. He was pale, unnaturally so, and had no hair about his face. His nose was flat, with two incisions for nostrils. A cruel smile played along his lips, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. Hattie’s excitement mounted with each passing moment.

“I see we meet again, Potter,” spoke Voldemort, voice never rising above a whisper. It was not something often seen; that is, a man with a face on the back of his head. Hattie pushed away those thoughts.

“Would you believe me if I told you I have wanted to meet you for quite some time?” remarked Hattie, leaning forward. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “You see, I have something of yours.”

“You interest me, Henrietta Potter…” he whispered. “I expected someone different from what you present. That is what you do, is it not? Present, fake, pretend to be what you are not? I know of what you do… I have done it myself, as a young man…” Hattie tilted her head, blinking owlishly.

“You may be correct in one aspect; however, you are wrong in another.”

Voldemort hissed, displeased, then said, “I am not mistaken.”

“Yes, you are,” said Hattie, reverting to her polite smile for but a moment. With her once again wide, unnerving grin, she said, “Hattie. That is where you differ. I would like you to call me Hattie. Surely, you would understand wanting a different name for oneself?” Voldemort’s slit eyes widened minutely. “Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong,” Hattie told him. “I do not know the name which you left behind. I simply recognize ‘Lord Voldemort’ as a chosen name. We are alike in many ways, Lord Voldemort…”

“I grow tired of these games, Potter,” he said, voice darkening. “Why should I not kill you where you stand?”

“Sit, actually,” Hattie corrected offhandedly. “And to answer your question, again, I repeat: I have something of yours.”

“Which is?” he spat. Quirrell’s hands were trembling. Not much longer, then, she supposes. Perhaps it would best to fix that now. Hattie reached into her pocket, setting Voldemort on alert. Before he could further mistake her movements as retaliation, Hattie took out a vial of viscous, silver liquid.

“This is not what I speak of, but it will help your… condition,” she told him. Voldemort studied it warily, crimson, slit eyes roving over the crystal container.

“Unicorn’s blood,” he whispered in shock. Then, eyes narrowed in suspicion, he hissed, “You attempt to fool me! This cannot be Unicorn’s blood.”

“It is,” said Hattie. “You must know of Euclid, yes? Euclid’s Elements?” Voldemort paused, expression going slack. “I am Euclid. This is real Unicorn’s blood, and I assure you it has not been tampered with.” Hattie felt the piercing stare Voldemort pinned her with. She couldn’t help but grin wider, then, when he ordered Quirrell to take the vial from her. Hattie passed it to him, keeping from touching his skin.

“I have more,” she told him, watching as he downed the blood. A curious sight, that. Voldemort himself was seeming to be a curious man in all. “You must take them three days in-between, or it will destroy your host.” At this admission, Quirrell shivered. “The reason for that is because this is because the blood which I gave you was highly concentrated, and made to suit your needs.”

“Why?” he asked, again facing her directly. “What do you gain from this?” Voldemort grinned widely. “Do you hope to garner favor with Lord Voldemort?” Hattie quirked a brow at his use of third person.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. My reasons are my own,” she said, keeping as vague as possible. Voldemort would not have this.

“Tell me!” he snapped, spitting with anger. Tapping her chin, Hattie crossed her leg over the other at the ankle. She hummed.

“I don’t think so,” she decided. Then, “However, I will warn you not to touch me. The Sacrificial Protection my mother put in place is still in effect, and will kill you. That is a certainty.” Hattie paused. “Again, you do not want to kill me. I am important to you.”

“Henrietta Potter? Important to Lord Voldemort?”

 _“Yes,”_ she hissed, standing from her seat, meeting Voldemort’s face. He appeared shocked, then enraged. Hattie grinned maniacally, arm raising. She brought her index finger to her scar, tracing the tip along its jagged, enflamed skin. _“I am the container of your soul.”_

“You lie!” screamed Voldemort. “That is not possible!”

“Master,” begged Quirrell, arms wrapped around his abdomen. “Please…”

“I am not lying,” Hattie told him, returning to her seat. _“Can you not feel it? The sliver of your soul embedded in my scar? I do. I feel it pulse with your rage, and I can feel it calling out to you.”_

Anger – raw, hot and all-consuming. Disbelief, a self-imposed deception. This was not true, and could not be. Shock – for despite his want to deny, to make this untrue, he could feel it. Sense it. Wonder… here, a piece of his soul, unknowingly lost, but safe… seeking him out… Hattie felt it all, coursing through her veins, pulsing through her mind. She saw the emotions cross Voldemort’s face in micro-expressions, hidden well but not enough for her.

“My horcrux…” he murmured, gaze landing on her scar with awe. Hattie smiled, waving for his attention. Voldemort’s eyes snapped back to hers.

“I am keeping it,” she said, causing him to bristle. “I can protect it. You realize that, don’t you? It’s not as if you could remove it without harming it, no…” Voldemort appraised her. He was smarter than she expected.

“You can,” he said neutrally. “What is it you want?”

“I am not willing to remove it,” she stated. Voldemort hissed, eyes burning. Hattie smiled, nonetheless, her head falling forward slightly. Dark red strands of hair followed her movement. “It is mine, and will stay mine,” Hattie told him, firm, “and you have no say in the matter.”

Voldemort looked ready to attack her – to bind her and _Crucio_ her into oblivion. Hattie would not have that. No, this would go _her_ way.

“Do you want to know how your soul came to be in my scar?” she asked, foregoing Parseltongue. Quirrell had heard enough. If Voldemort wanted him oblivious, he could make it so himself. “October thirty first, nineteen eighty-one. You made your way to Godric’s Hollow, intent on killing the Potters, for some reason unknown to me.”

Hattie smiled sardonically. “Does the great Lord Voldemort truly need a reason to kill, though?” she asked rhetorically, barking a harsh laugh. “No, he doesn’t. I digress. You attacked my family, killed my father, and then my mother. However, you did not realize something. Something vitally important.” Hattie paused, to build tension.

“You see, my mother was not an ignorant person. She understood the strength behind darker, older magics. Ancient magics. Her choice to save me, her unbreakable will… No matter how many chances she was given to step aside, she refused. There was a magic at work here, a powerful one. You can call it whatever you like: be it Blood magic, Sacrificial Protection, or a mother’s love.”

“However, …however,” said Hattie, eyes wide and imploring, “That is not all. The beneficiary of the counter-charm is not immune to spells. No, they can still be cast on them, they only wear off quicker. This charm most certainly does not cause Killing Curses to bounce off and attack their caster.” Here, Hattie grinned almost madly, her eyes lit with a fervor. She threw her arms up in the air, saying, “It was a miracle! An anomaly! There was no logical reason for any of the events of that night.”

“What can cause the Killing Curse to deflect? Nothing! And yet, and yet – it did!”

“You’re mad,” snarled Voldemort.

“No,” said Hattie, “I am on the brink of discovery. What can stop Death? The splitting of the soul, an incident unexplained? I must know,” she said, “and I will know. What happened that night? Did my mother do more than just self-sacrifice? Did her love transcend the known limits to magic?”

“Preposterous,” said Voldemort. “Love is a weakness.”

“I cannot say for myself,” said Hattie. “For I cannot feel much beside the most potent emotions. There is a disconnect between my soul, my mind, and my body. I am a Necromancer, a true Necromancer. Look into my eyes – they are as black as Death itself! That is because of my heritage, my legacy.”

“Peverell,” he whispered. “Then –?”

“Yes,” nodded Hattie. “Peverell, the three brothers who bested Death… oh, oh, they thought they did. The eldest was killed by his own wand. The second eldest killed himself in his sorrow. And the youngest… oh, the youngest lived, hidden from Death by Death’s own cloak – but he was not missed. He was cursed. His daughter, born with eyes unnaturally dark, and a beauty otherworldly. Iolanthe Peverell, the first true Necromancer.”

“Where are you going with this?” hissed Voldemort. “You talk of nonsense. There is no ‘true’ Necromancy; it can be done by any powerful enough wizard!”

Hattie blinked, slow. “The curse upon my line affects the bond between body, mind, and soul. A normal human being has each held together so closely that they intertwine. I can see yours,” she said, meeting his eyes. “It’s fascinating – there are two sets of minds and souls inhabiting your host. Your soul, however…” She stopped. “My mind,” continued Hattie, “my body, my soul – they’re all separate. There is but a fine line connecting the three.”

“Perhaps this is what allowed me to live that night,” said Hattie. “When the Killing Curse struck me, it could not destroy all three parts at once, as it would a normal human; no, it had to settle with one. However, this is where I grow confused: it was not my body that was destroyed, but yours! How could that be?”

“Potter…”

“Yes, yes. Thus, your body was destroyed, and your soul was ejected to roam as a Wraith. Through your creation of Horcruxes – yes, I know about the others – you broke the tethers connecting your body, mind, and soul. Your soul and mind were chipped off and placed into the containers for some ungodly reason.”

“That cannot be,” said Voldemort. “I put pieces of my soul into the Horcruxes, not my mind.” Hattie didn’t think that he had realized, and this proved that.

“Humans, as I said, have their bodies, minds, and souls interconnected. The tethers which intertwine these are extremely complex. When you broke off a piece of your soul, you gave it a body – the Horcrux container – and so the body connection was transferred without problem. However, you did not give it a mind – and so when you made the Horcrux, the piece of soul pulled on your mind and broke off a bit of its own to keep. It’s a complicated business, that.”

Voldemort was oddly quiet. Perhaps the news had unsettled him. From the looks of his tattered soul and mind, and current lack of a body of his own, Hattie would say he had made quite a few Horcruxes. He was likely wondering just how much damage he had done to his mind.

“It may not be of any reassurance, but the soul piece which broke off from your murder of my mother – yes, that’s where it came from – had my mind to stabilize it, meaning that your mind was not further broken from its departure.”

“Then by using containers which have minds of their own, I can create Horcruxes without breaking mine?” he asked, seeming excited by the news.

“That is correct,” said Hattie. “However, your previous Horcruxes took off sizeable chunks of your soul. You will not last long at the rate you’re going.” She paused, ponderous. Yes, that was not a bad idea. Not at all. “I can help you,” Hattie told him, catching his attention.

“Why might you do that, Potter? I killed your father, your mother… and I will kill you, too,” he hissed.

“No,” said Hattie. “You won’t. I have a deal for you. I can help you, but only if you agree to my terms. I’ll give you the semester to think it over. That is how long your supply will last, after that, you are on your own. Good night, Voldemort. Good night, Professor Quirrell. I shall see you in class – and Voldemort, before the Christmas break, I do hope,” she said, rising from her seat.

Things were becoming interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! Your comments make me unbelievably happy  <3 I'm so glad to hear that a lot of you love Hattie - it means a lot. I hope you enjoy this chapter even if it's a bit shorter than the usual.


	2. Elsewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere, someplace; Elsewhere, else-place.

Outside of the Charm’s classroom, Hattie leaned against the wall. Her arms were crossed and eyes closed, one of her feet crossed over the other. She was waiting, as she seemed to be doing a lot of these days.

The door to the classroom opened, and with it, Hattie’s eyes did too. She scanned the crowds, picking out faces. A head of flaxen hair came rushing out, to which Hattie’s arm shot out, snatching up the robe sleeve of the blonde. Draco startled. A glance his way and the boy settled at her side.

She next spotted the remaining two she was looking for. Ron and Hermione both exited the classroom, sharing a hushed conversation, each looking quite vexed.

“It’s no wonder that no one –,” he was saying, but Hattie was more focused on reading his expression. His face was red, likely with irritation and embarrassment – shame? – and he was scowling. Overall, Hattie suspected he had nothing nice to say.

“Ron, Hermione,” Hattie greeted, interrupting the conversation. They both looked to her, Hermione with glossy eyes and Ron with surprise. Something chilled within Hattie at seeing her so close to tears. Grabbing Ron’s sleeve, she pulled him aside with no lack of forcefulness.

“Hey! Woah, what’s with you?” he said, stumbling. Meeting Hattie’s eyes, he paled. She could see him fighting the urge to cower.

“Ron,” said Hattie, keeping her voice quiet enough that others would not pick up on their conversation, but also firm enough to instill fear into Ron. “I am going to give you some advice.” At this, he nodded quickly, his hair following the movement. “First, Hermione is a _friend_. She is not the greatest with social interaction, but she is trying.” Again, a nod. “She needs help. Help to learn how to interact properly, and help in accepting herself. She needs someone to show her, _with complete and utter patience_ , what she is doing wrong. _Kindly_. Can you do that?”

Ron nodded, shaking. “O-Of course,” he said. “Hermione’s a – she’s a bit of a know it all, a-and I’ll tell her when she’s being t-too forceful.” Hattie was pleasantly surprised. He was not a complete idiot, then, she thought.

“Kindly,” she reminded, with a tight smile.

“Kindly,” Ron repeated, tremulously. Hattie gave him a brighter smile, then, and led him back to where Hermione – and Draco, off to the side – were waiting. Ron bowed his head, shuffling his feet. “H-Hermione,” he said, catching her attention.

“What?” she snapped, attempting to hide her near-tears.

“I – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been rude to you; you were just trying to help.” This garnered some surprise. “You – You just need to work on how you say it,” he continued. “It sounded like you were trying to make yourself look better than me.”

Hermione crossed her arms, huffing. She looked away. “That’s not – no, Ron. I was trying to give you advice on how to do the spell properly. I… suppose it may have come out harsher than I intended. Sorry.” Ron shook his head, muttering an _it’s fine_. “Oh, Hattie,” said Hermione, turning to her. “What were you doing out here so early?” Draco, also interested, looked to her as well.

Hattie tilted her head slightly, smiling cheerily. “I wanted to inform you that I will not be attending the Halloween Feast.”

“What?” said Ron, shocked. “But you have to! It’s going to be great – there will be food, and decorations, and enough candy to get sick!”

“You’ll rot your teeth,” said Hermione. “If you’re not going to the feast, then where will you be going?” she asked, addressing Hattie. A glance to Draco told Hattie that he was not quite as clueless.

“I will be celebrating Sauin traditionally, elsewhere.” Hattie held up a finger, halting Hermione’s response. “Sauin, or Samhain, is the Gaelic, Pagan, and magical holiday celebrating the return of the darker half of the year. You have read some on it, yes? A _laa_ , sunset to sunset – October thirty-first to November first. I’ll only be celebrating to dawn’s break, however.”

“I – yes,” said Hermione. “Isn’t the celebration of the Pagan holidays… taboo?”

“No –,” began Draco, but was cut off by Ron.

“Yea,” chimed in Ron, looking pale in the face. “Mum and Dad said it’s a Dark practice. That Dark wizards sacrifice animals and torture muggles.” Of course the Weasleys would tell their children that, thought Hattie. What was this generation being taught? Dark practices were what you made them to be; everything else was a personal choice.

“That is not how it is,” Draco said, annoyed. Hattie wouldn’t have to explain after all. “The seasonal festivals can be celebrated a number of ways. They’re not illegal or taboo, either, Granger,” he sneered. A cold glance from Hattie had him softening his glare. “Just misunderstood,” he continued. “Samhain is a time to honor the dead. Is that what you’re planning to do, Hattie?”

“In a way,” she avoided answering. “If any of you are interested, I am extending invitation to you. Meet me on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest just before sundown. Any later will be too late.” Hermione appeared skeptical, and more than a little worried, but nodded nonetheless. Ron shuffled a bit, shrugging noncommittedly, peering at Draco every so often. Draco, meanwhile, was staring at Hattie pensively.

“Come on, Ron,” said Hermione. “We’re going to be late. Bye, Hattie,” she said. Ron followed after her, waving to Hattie. When the two had gone, Hattie turned to Draco.

“Will you be accompanying?” she asked, head tilted slightly. Draco pursed his lips, scanning her expression for an answer he wouldn’t get. He let out a breath of air through his nose.

“I suppose,” he said. “Is there anything I should bring?”

“No,” she told him. “I will procure the necessary tools. If you so wish, bring a branch of Rowan. I will bring some for the others… If you have a protective charm of your own, wear it.” Hattie looked him over, roving her eyes along his figure. “Would I be correct in assuming you have more than enough iron to keep yourself from being snatched?”

Draco gulped.

* * *

The sun was red-hot against Hattie’s back. Light scattered across the ground, broken by her stance, molten reds and burnt oranges twining together with her pitch shadow. Hattie, foregone of her uniform, was dressed in her black over-robe with silver fastenings. She wore her ruffled white blouse with a silver vest lined with onyx buttons. Black trousers and glistening dragonhide boots completed the outfit.  

A short gust of wind blew past, and Hattie did not attempt to shield herself. Her hair was kept in place by her Blackthorn hair-stick, keeping it neatly held against her head in a bun. In the distance, she spotted a figure coming closer.

Draco, garbed in formal robes, nodded to her. He proffered an ornate box, which Hattie accepted graciously. Inside, she found, were copious amounts of iron – some fashioned into amulets of protection and others raw. Hattie nodded, voicing her appreciation.

“I,” said Draco, catching her attention. “I hope you don’t mind, but I – I told my parents. About the Samhain celebration.” The Malfoys were as Dark as they came. Hattie wasn’t worried about them – especially not if they allowed their son to participate.

“It is fine,” Hattie told him. “Does your family oft celebrate?” To this, Draco nodded, wringing his hands a bit. He glanced at the best resting by her feet.

“Do you need help setting up? I’m familiar with the practices and…”

Hattie waved him off, saying, “There’s no need. Most of this is here for a separate ritual. I could use a hand though with making the salt circle.”

“I can do that,” said Draco. “My father taught me a few years ago. Will you be setting up the directional candles?” Hattie nodded, giving affirmative. An impressed look came across Draco’s face. “Father thinks I should be a few years older before I can set the candles up myself,” he told her.

“I suspected as much,” said Hattie. “The directional candles can be volatile. Here is the salt,” she told him, handing over the container. “The magic circle has already been drawn.” Draco followed her gaze, noticing the line running around them, drawn into the dirt. “Follow it with the salt. I will work to set up the candles whilst you do so.”

Draco went about doing as she had instructed, letting the precise amount of salt fall onto the lines. Hattie, meanwhile, had completed the Eastern candle and had begun working on the South. She kneeled upon the ground, her knees digging into the dirt. With measured movements, she brought the Athame in front of her, tracing the Invoking Pentagram. The wick was set aflame.

 _“Lords of the South, of the flame and the fire, of the raging pyre within the heart and soul,”_ she murmured, hands clasped in prayer. _“Unto this plane I call ye, for rite and spell, for magic I craft. Take up the mantle of our Watchtower of South, feed our flame and guard our Circle. Heed my call!”_

Hattie opened her eyes and leaned forward, puckering her lips. She blew the candle flame, but it did not extinguish. _“I thank thee with breath of life. Gather the magic from mine lifeforce,”_ her bloodied palm was held aloft, _“and grant upon us the gift of fire. Do ut des.”_ The blood that had dripped before the candle began its slow ascent up the wax body. When it reached the flame, it roared and flashed a deep red.

 _“Dictum meum pactum,”_ she concluded, rising from her crouch. Perspiration had begun to bead at her forehead. Hattie swiped it from her brow, continuing on her work. Blaise arrived during the lighting of the West Watchtower, watching silently from afar. Draco was laying the last of the salt by the time Hattie had finished with the West, and had joined Blaise when she began the North.

_“Lords of the North, of the Earth, of the ground beneath us… Boreas, the sky, the chilling Northern lights – may the portal open, connect and entwine, allow for the elements to combine. Upon this Earth, this ground beneath, betwixt the Watchtowers of East, South, West, and North, might ye give us thine blessing. Take upon thine broad shoulders and ancient maw, the weight of the Northern Watchtower. Heed my call!”_

Reaching forth, Hattie’s palm grasped the flickering flame, which consumed her hand in an explosion of black flame. Pulling her hand back, Hattie rose and walked to the center of the Circle. She pressed her hand in the center, letting the black flame spread across the ground. It stopped at the edges of the Circle, the salt glowing silver, and then in the next instant it was gone.

 _“Dictum meum pactum,”_ intoned Hattie. _“Dixi.”_

She breathed out, yet knew there was more to come. Hattie turned around to face Draco and Blaise, then spotted Ron, Hermione, and Neville coming up from behind. She nodded to them, gesturing for them all to enter the circle. The ground had been charred, tracing the lines of her intent. All that was left was to incant the spell.

“That was a spectacular show, Euclid,” said Blaise. It hadn’t much minded her when he first began calling her by the title, and it still didn’t. It was a show of respect in his own way. “Although, I’ve never quite seen the cardinals enacted in such a way.”

“I’ve formulated my own method over the years,” she told him, along with Draco, who had shown his interest. “This way would assist in what I need tonight.”

Hermione, suspicious, asked her, “And I thought you said it would be nothing more than watching sunset and sunrise?” Hattie sent her a puckish smile.

“Why, I never said that. We will be watching the sunset and sunrise; however, not quite… here.” Hermione gasped, understanding what she meant, then paled.

“We can’t leave school grounds!” she hissed. “What would the teachers say? We would get in so much trouble.” How adorably un-fun. Hattie would have to fix that.

Waving her off, Hattie told her, “Do not worry. I have left golems in our places. Neville, you look quite shaken. Would you like to take a seat?” He shook his head. “Alright. Now, I would like all of you to stay within the Circle. Ron, do not attempt to break the salt ring. It will not only stay strong, but may have adverse effects on you.” The pale ginger stepped away from the outer ring.

Hattie nodded, withdrawing a silver bell. It wasn’t overly large, but dainty nonetheless. “Place your hands upon the portkey,” she ordered. Though some were hesitant, each placed their hands upon the bell.

 _“Within the Circle of elements, Spirit resides,”_ said Hattie. _“Twilight is upon us. In this absence of sound, this stillness profound, grant us passageway through the ether.”_ The trees bowed to the soundless wind. _“Behind my whispers, beneath my tongue, the Word resides. The shadows stir, awaken in the copse, heeding my call. A gateway be formed at the very Word, to which I now proclaim: Sauin!”_

And with a whoosh of air, and the sensation of being dragged through space at a speed unholy, the group was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictum meum pactum - My word is my bond, Latin  
> Dixi - I have spoken, Latin  
> Do ut des - I give that you may give, Latin
> 
> Inspiration for watchtower speech is from Liber Umbrarum et Lux


	3. In Death's Dream Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Our dried voices, when  
>  We whisper together  
> Are quiet and meaningless  
> As wind in dry grass_
> 
> The Hollow Men – by T.S. Eliot

Hattie refused to stumble, her feet finding the dirt pathway and grinding to a halt, steadying her tilt. The others were not so lucky, either landing flat on their bottoms or bending over, hands on their knees. The ground kept the fallen from becoming injured, the chosen destination being a dirt pathway surrounded by soft grass. It was lit an incandescent orange with the last rays of sunlight.

“HATTIE!” screeched Hermione, stricken with panic. “I can’t believe – I – where are we? How far are we from Hogwarts? Oh, we’re going to be in so much trouble!” She twirled around, curly hair swishing with her sudden turns of the head. Her eyes were wide and unable to stay on one thing for more than a few seconds.

Off to the side, Neville still had yet to rise from the ground. With a pale face, and tremoring hands, he opened and closed his mouth. “Is this… Is this Ireland?” he said. Hattie nodded, stowing away the silver bell. They would need it to return to Hogwarts.

 _“Dumha na nGiall,”_ said Hattie. “The Mound of Hostages. We are in Leinster, Ireland. As you can see, the sun is beginning to set. We haven’t much time left. If you all would move to the side – yes, over here. Perfect. The Mound of Hostages is one of many passage tombs – burial chambers – and is aligned with the Sauin sunrise.” While she spoke, Hattie withdrew an empty lantern. She opened the latch to it, and held it aloft. “To capture the last rays,” she murmured.

The sun, falling upon the horizon, illuminated the back of the mound, scattering the light and blinding the spectators. Spots danced along their eyelids, and they blinked, attempting to rid their sight of the sunspots. Meanwhile, Hattie shut the latch to the lantern, now lit with a warm light, emanating from seemingly nothing. Dark began to creep upon the land, and with it, tendrils of mist. They seeped from the mound’s door.

Ron shivered, rubbing his arms. “What was that?” he asked. “I thought I felt something.” Neville nodded in agreement, and Hermione’s brow pinched.

“Did you,” began Hermione, looking confused then shocked. “Did you capture the sunlight in your lantern?” she asked Hattie. This drew a few looks to the lantern held aloft.

“Indeed,” said Hattie. “It will lead us on our way. Before we move on, I must hand out a few necessities.” She bent, reaching into her bag. “Rowan,” she said, holding the bundle of sticks aloft. “Each is connected by a red thread. Do not untie the knot, and do not let go. They will keep us together.” Hattie passed one to each of the group.

“Why do need these?” asked Ron, turning the twig over in his hands. “I mean – what we’re doing isn’t dangerous, is it? What happens if we lose our stick?” At least he was thinking about safety, thought Hattie. His sentiments were shared by the group. Were they all afraid of a little danger?

“Do not worry,” she told them all. “If you do not lose your Rowan, then you will be fine. Careful of the mist, Neville,” Hattie warned, and the boy jumped, looking down at his feet. He had come close to stepping into the pale covering of mist. Drawing their attention back in, Hattie began speaking once more. “Stay close together. Do not wander off the path.”

“Hattie,” said Hermione, begging her with her eyes to ease her worries. “Path? Where are we going?”

 _“Mag Argatnél,”_ said Hattie, turning to face the gate of the mound. The fog appeared to be coming from the entrance, rolling across the ground in silver-white waves. With a flick of her wrist, the gate began to open, creaking all the way. Once it had fully opened, a few gulps could be heard – there was only endless mist beyond. Hattie walked forward, tugging on the rest of the group by their red thread.

“I don’t know about this, Hattie,” said Neville, shivering a bit. Blaise, in front of him, snorted in contempt. Neville looked to him with furrowed brow, taking note of Blaise’s own hesitancy to follow.

“Trust me, Neville,” she told him. “We’ll be back by sunrise. Now, the true festivities await us.” With that, Hattie passed through the entryway, disappearing from sight. Despite this, the thread held strong. The others hadn’t much else choice besides following along. Hermione took a deep breath, held it, and passed through the gate. Draco followed next, with Ron just after him. Blaise paused at the entrance.

“Are you gonna go through?” asked Neville, peering curiously – and fearfully – at Blaise’s still form.

“Obviously,” he returned, but it lacked its normal bite. Neville shifted slightly, tightening his grip on the Rowan.

“Well, I’ve got your back, so…” he told him, trailing off at the end. Blaise glance sharply at him, then sneered.

“Like I need your help,” he said. “I’m more than capable enough of taking care of myself.” And with that, he passed under the mound’s entryway. Neville watched him go with distress, but nonetheless followed after.

The other side of the gateway was almost like entering a silver-white cloud. There was fog on all sides, curling at the floor and hiding the ceiling. It was impossible to tell how far it went. Left, right, forward, backward, and up – the mist went on. Behind them, the gateway could not be seen.

“The entrance is gone,” Hermione whispered harshly into Hattie’s ear. Her eyes flickered to Keraunos every so often, but when the snake did not react much more than flick out his tongue, she settled by Hattie’s side.

“Indeed,” said Hattie, keeping her eyes ahead. “We are in _Mag Argatnél_ , everyone. Do not become lost, or else I cannot guarantee your safety.” The others were quiet. “Draco has so graciously lent us iron to protect ourselves from _siabhra._ Pass these around,” she slipped the box from her pocket.

“Sheevra?” asked Hermione, taking the box. From its contents, she pulled out an iron medallion. The box was handed to Draco, who then passed it back to Ron and so on. Hattie glanced to her before returning her gaze on the fog ahead.

“Fairies,” she explained. “I’ll give you my books to read when we get back. The more in-depth tomes are in foreign languages, however.” Hermione nodded, showing her appreciation. “Keep close, Draco –,” a far-off cry sounded, interrupting her. It was shrill and echoing, and sent cold chills along the group.

“Do not pay it any mind,” called Hattie. “It is a _bean sídhe._ She will lure you away if you listen too closely.” Ron’s freckles were stark against his pallid visage. He glanced about, holding his Rowan close. When another wail pierced the air, he flinched, looking off into the distance with wide, unseeing eyes.

Draco slapped his arm, drawing him back from his stupor. “Did you not hear her?” he said to him. “Ignore it. It’s trying to scare you.” He shrugged then, rolling his shoulders, and looked away. There was a scowl on his face, but it was not cruel.

“Yea,” said Ron, looking shaken. “Ignore it.” He nodded to himself, steeling his shoulders. Hattie turned back to facing ahead.

“Prepare yourselves,” she told them, casting a glance over the group. In her left hand, she held the lantern aloft, illuminating the mist with hazy orange light. “Do not relinquish your Rowan. No matter what, or whom, you see, do not follow them. I won’t repeat myself again, so take these words to heart. I will not come back for you if you lose yourself.”

“Hattie!” hissed Hermione, gripping her cloak sleeve. “You can’t say that!” Ah, a Gryffindor’s chivalry. How annoying. Hattie quirked an eyebrow at the irate girl. Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes.

Figures began to appear out of the mist. They were vague at a distance, but with the closer they drew, the more resemblance they bore towards humans. A man in armor passed by, his eye scarred and a spear wrenched in his chest. Another, a woman, passed them, a bundle of cloth hung over her arm and pearlescent blood at her lips.

“Ghosts?” said Ron, looking less wary. Hattie nodded. A procession of the dead continued to pass by, continuing on their way unhindered. They did not take note of Hattie’s group, and none of the living dared interrupt their passage. Ahead, a podium drew close. It was short, only coming to Hattie’s waist, and had a peculiar pattern of stones beneath it. When the group reached it, Hattie dropped the lantern onto its flat surface. She turned to face rest of them.

“Do not go further than the lantern’s light can reach,” she told them, meeting each of their eyes. Once Hattie had received a nod from each, she continued. “Sauin is a time of honoring the deceased. Speak with your departed, but do not follow them. We are in Death’s Kingdom,” Hattie’s free hand rose and gestured to the surroundings.

Architecture was becoming apparent in the mist. Crumbling, stone turrets and cobblestone towers. They loomed in the distance, some mere shadows, others almost close enough to reach. Behind Hattie, the largest and most magnificent of them all could be seen: a foreboding, immense castle. A veil fell over its entrance, flowing in the nonexistent breeze.

“Is that –?” asked someone, Hattie didn’t note who. She interrupted their question.

“Do not go near it. Passing through the veil will kill you,” she told them bluntly. “Meet with your deceased. We haven’t much time.” They nodded, but then Neville posed a question.

“And the Rowan?”

Hattie sent him a small smile. “The string will lengthen. If you see an _aos sí,_ do not bother them. An _aos sí_ may interact with you of their own volition, and if so, be courteous. I have propitiation on hand if necessary. Do not anger them. Many fae are retired deities. Be respectful, understood?” Again, nods. Hattie looked over the group, then settled with leaving them be. Hermione stuck by Hattie’s side whilst Draco and Blaise made off on their own. Ron appeared a bit lost, but shrugged and made off in a different direction.

“Neville,” Hattie said, drawing his attention. The boy looked to her, inexplicably sad. “You may find that more than the dead are here,” she told him, to which his eyes widened. He nodded, making to leave, but hesitated. “Worry not, Neville. You will find that what one looks for is easily found here. Do not think much on it.”

“What was that about?” Hermione asked once Neville had gone. Hattie look to her, surreptitiously keeping one eye on the lantern at her side.

“Something which I am not entitled to share,” she told her. Hermione’s brow furrowed in an obvious display of confusion, before it smoothed out. She appeared pitying for but a moment, then forewent that expression as well. Hattie measured her with her gaze, then asked, “Not to sound prying, but do you have none to visit?”

Hermione, bashful, replied, “Well… there is my great aunt that passed away summer before last, but I never much liked her. I’d prefer not to see her if I can.” Hattie nodded in understanding.

“Would you like to come with, then?” An expression of interest overcame Hermione’s face. “I am meeting with my parents –,” she flinched, “– and I am sure they would love to meet you.” Hermione appeared hesitant, and more than a little awkward.

“I’m not sure –,” she shifted, trying to appear unfettered but failing remarkably. Hattie placed her free hand upon Hermione’s shoulder, giving her a soft smile.

“This is not my first time reuniting with them, Hermione,” Hattie told her, and the tenseness eased from her shoulders. Apologetic, she made to apologize for her reaction, but Hattie stopped her. “It is fine. It was only polite of you. Come, now, else the night draw to close before we finish our business.”

They needn’t go far. A few steps into the mist and two figures appeared out of the haze. One, a man with dark, untamed hair and glasses. The other a woman with a mane of red hair – not unlike Hattie’s – and green eyes unparalleled. They were both white with the pallor of the dead.

“Hattie,” spoke the woman, Lily Potter. “Who have you brought with you?” she asked, eyes landing on Hermione. Blushing under the sudden attention, Hermione made to stutter out a reply, but found herself unable.

“Mother, Father,” Hattie said, gesturing to Hermione. “Allow me to introduce you to Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is my mother, Lily Potter, and my father, James Potter.” Hermione sketched a quick bow, to which Lily smiled.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Lily. James nodded, voicing his shared sentiments. “How have you been, Hattie? Is school at all as you expected?” While she spoke, James placed his hand upon her shoulder.

“Have you pranked anyone yet?” asked her father, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. Lily smacked his arm lightly.

“I have been as well as usual,” said Hattie. “School has been… interesting. And yes, I believe I have pulled a few on one or more students, if you count generally stirring chaos.” She smiled with faux innocence, to which Hermione snorted.

“I believe whatever you did to Professor Snape falls under that,” she noted lightly. James perked up at this, scenting the beginnings of a humorous tale.

“Oh?” he said, ignoring Lily’s warning look. “And what did you do to ol’ Snivellus?” A tick appeared under Lily’s eye, and she pursed her lips. Hattie knew that look well.

“James,” was all she had to say. Her father’s hands went up placatingly.

“Force of habit,” he excused, but it was a weak argument. Lily let it slide with a sigh. “Well?” he prodded Hattie, still curious as to what she had pulled. Hattie smiled.

“He refused to call me by my chosen title,” she said, to which her parents’ expressions turned solemn. Hermione noticed this, but didn’t interrupt. She looked curious, however, and would no doubt hound Hattie later, when she could. “In the end, he found himself calling me by it anyway, whether to this will or not.” She smiled grimly.

“Oh, Hattie,” began Lily, using her tone of voice to denote she was disappointed. “You really shouldn’t –,”

A scream rent the air.

“Was that Draco?” asked Hermione, looking around in concern. She would not be able to see them in this mist.

“No,” said Hattie, expression falling back into her usual disinterest. “That was Blaise. I suspect we should check it out. He likely brought trouble upon himself. Mother, Father,” she nodded, curtsying, “till _Laa Boaltinn_.”

“Take care of yourself, Hattie,” said her mother. “Don’t –,” the screaming began again, growing more erratic with terror. “Stay safe,” she settled on, knowing their time was drawing to a close. Her ghostly hands cupped Hattie’s face as she met her eyes. _“Amor vincit omnia,”_ she whispered to her. “Go.”

They left, leaving the two waving spirits in their wake. Hattie led Hermione back to the podium, where they found Draco and Ron gather, faces taunt with worry. Upon seeing them, the two looked relieved.

“Hattie,” said Draco, speaking first. “Blaise –,” Hattie held up her hand, stopping him. She nodded, taking hold of the lantern.

“Trace the thread.” She paused, then continued. “Neville is not with us. He may be with Blaise. Let us follow the string, but if they have lost their branches then –,”

“We’ll find them,” finished Hermione, determined. Her eyes dared Hattie to argue.

“Let us go,” said Hattie, leading the group into the mist, leaving Hermione’s silent challenge unanswered. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before they reached the end of the thread. Neville was barely holding onto his own Rowan, his hands gripped around Blaise’s ankles. Blaise, on the other hand, had dropped his own in the commotion. His arms were held on either side by shades, with another pulling him at the waist.

He was screaming to be let go, and Neville was attempting to keep him from being dragged away. The shades, which had hold of him, were muttering a name in repetition, as though it were a cursed chant. _Elvira_ , they repeated, vitriol rolling across the name. Hattie knew, then, what had occurred. The damnation of Elvira’s deeds was being wrought – upon her son, however.

“Shades,” called Hattie, stilling their movements. Neville took this chance to wrench Blaise from their grip. The enraged spirits hissed, once again reaching for the boy. Hattie would not have this. “Shades!” she commanded, watching with perverse pleasure as they paused in their movement. “Do not harm that boy. He is not Elvira.” With a glance to Neville, she indicated for him to share his Rowan with Blaise. Her attention returned to the shades.

“Return from whence you came!” Hattie ordered, holding the lantern aloft. The light flashed and burned the shades, who hissed and recoiled. “Run,” she told the others. In their shock, they did not make to move. “Run!” barked Hattie, the light of the lantern keeping the spirits at bay. This startled the others into action. They followed Hattie, who lead from the front, lantern held high.

“How are we going to get out of here?” called Hermione, breathing heavily. “The entrance disappeared!”

“The lantern will guide us back,” answered Hattie. “Here,” she said suddenly, stopping in her tracks. Hermione crashed into her back, but Hattie stood firm. Keraunos hissed, displeased, and Hermione jumped away from her. Hattie unlatched the lantern.

Warm, orange light spilled from it, illuminating an iron gate that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. Hattie flicked her wrist, and the gate swung open. “This way,” she said, stepping through. On the other side, the morning sun’s light hit the mound directly. Hattie made her way out onto the dirt path, and Hermione stumbled out after her, coughing roughly. Draco and Ron made it out next, and Neville and Blaise simultaneously.

Hattie flicked her wrist, and the gate shut behind them. She waited for the others to finish their coughing fits. The air of _Mag Argatnél_ was purer than theirs, and as such, the transition upon returning was uncomfortable.

“What –,” hacked Ron, “– in Merlin’s name –,” another cough, “– was that?!”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘that’,” said Hattie. “If you meant the shades, then those were vengeful spirits.” She looked to Blaise, who would not meet her eyes. “I should not have interfered. You should have been held accountable for your actions. You called them to you,” she stated, rather than asked. Blaise was uncooperative.

“No,” said Neville, surprisingly. “Even… Even if he caused it, Z-Zabini didn’t deserve that. No one does.” He squared his shoulders despite still shivering from the fear and adrenaline. Hattie’s eyes fell on him appraisingly, and found she liked what she saw.

“That is,” she paused, “kind of you, Neville.” Hattie turned to face Blaise once again. “You should be grateful to him.” This garnered some incredulity. “Do not look surprised,” she told him, harsh. “Neville kept you from being taken by the shades.”

“He grabbed my ankles, sure –,”

“Neville did more than extend a helping hand,” she hissed, meeting him face-to-face. Blaise paled slightly, still shaken from the ordeal. “He could have left you. Perhaps you see yourself not needing of others, but from what I can see, you do. You keep yourself closed off, and have too much pride for your own good. I would have left you. Neville, however, saw a reason not to – and I do not think it is merely because he would do the same for any other. Appreciate what he has done for you.” Hattie pulled back, eyes cold.

The sun had risen high enough above the horizon that the light was no longer fully illuminating the gateway. From behind iron bars, there was no sign of the silver-white fog. Only the inside of the mound could be seen.

“Gather around,” said Hattie, withdrawing the silver bell. “We are returning to Hogwarts.”

They each touched the bell, and with that, Hattie spoke the activation word. With what felt to be a hook to the naval, they were whisked away to the Hogwarts’ grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running out of pre-written chapters...
> 
> Mag Argatnél ("the silver-cloud plain") - Terms for the Otherworld, a realm of the deities and also the dead  
> Bean sídhe - banshee  
> Aos sí - Irish term for supernatural race (fairies, elves, etc), also known as aes sídhe


	4. A Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This unhallowed waif of a Witch –  
> She makes deals like the Devil himself.

The sky was a blanket of black velvet draped over the Astronomy Tower. Stars lit the darkness, more than one could ever imagine seeing, forming swirls of galaxies and dots between constellations. The moon was perfectly round, beaming radiantly, giving just enough light for the first years to fill out their notes without problem.

Hattie had her telescope out, pointed directly at the constellation of Perseus. At her side, Hermione was scribbling away, her quill scratching against the parchment noisily. Paying her no mind, Hattie continued to adjust her telescope until it landed precisely on the star Algol.

“Did you hear what Professor Sinistra said?” asked Hermione, not looking up. Hattie gave her a noncommittal hum, manipulating the zoom functions. “Well,” continued Hermione, “She said that Algol is an eclipsing binary star, meaning that the single point of light is actually two different stars in close orbit of one another.” She was repeating the professor almost word-for-word, noted Hattie.

Turning away from the telescope, Hattie met Hermione’s gaze. “Therefore, Algol’s brightness is constantly fluctuating,” she said. Hermione blinked, surprised.

“You _were_ listening, then,” she noted. Hattie lips quirked, and she turned back to the telescope.

“Ancient sky watchers once thought that Algol was cursed,” Hattie told her, fiddling with the finder scope. This grabbed Hermione’s attention, as the professor hadn’t mentioned what Hattie was telling her. “It was abnormal for a star to change brightness. Thus, it was given the name Algol, ‘demon star’.” Hattie paused, looking back at Hermione. “Of course, it was never truly cursed.”

“No,” said Hermione, “just misunderstood.”

If Hattie was bothered by her choice of words, she did not show it.

* * *

Torches were hung along the walls. The faded orange or their flames illuminated the Victorian wallpaper. Marigolds and daisies were strung together by fine webs of silver patterns. An eerie brown stain marred a spot on the wall, faded but permanent. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, none of its candles lit despite the darkness which pervaded the room.

Two figures stood side by side.

Hattie, dressed in her charcoal cloak, turned to face her companion. He was tall, much taller than her, and donned a black cloak. Both he and Hattie wore their cloak hoods up, but no for much longer. Hattie pulled back hers, unveiling her face. Pale, dark red hair, dark eyes. The other’s hood was pulled back. Red hair, much lighter than Hattie’s, and grey eyes were revealed. His face was set in a scowl.

“Arcturus,” she greeted, nodding. The man nodded back. “How goes things?”

“Fine, my Lady,” he said, then glanced away. “Quintessence has had no further problems. The last to attempt to sell their _stater_ left a mark on them, I believe. They are quite terrified.”

“Good,” said Hattie, pushing a cigar box towards him. “The newest set,” she told him, to which he nodded. “I would like to ask, Arcturus,” began Hattie, a wan smile curling against her lips. “Are you planning to visit your family any time soon?” A shocked expression filtered over his rugged features. He paused.

“No, my Lady,” he said carefully. “I had not planned to. Should I?” This was what Hattie liked to see in her people. Complete dedication. She would miss Arcturus when their agreement was fulfilled. She told him as much. His face hardened.

“I understand,” said Hattie, although she felt it was a great disappointment. Arcturus was one of her favorites… “When the pact is met, you will continue on your way.” A moment of silence. “I am sad to say that that day is drawing ever closer.” What with the number of _stater_ being given out, and her plans slowly coming to fruition…

“Truly, my Lady?” he breathed, eyes widening in eagerness. “How much longer, would you say?”

“Perhaps another year,” said Hattie, looking over him with displeasure. Arcturus reigned in his excitement. “I still have yet to obtain the sword,” she told him, to which he looked mildly dismayed. “Do not fret. I am certain that I shall be able to.” Not that she had any idea as to where it was, yet. Arcturus nodded sagely.

“Yes, as Gryffindor’s heir,” he said, “my Lady should be able to obtain it without problem. Do you –?”

“No,” huffed Hattie, turning away. “Not as of yet. No leads, no hints… no trails to follow. I will find it, though. I suppose I have had better luck with finding…” Arcturus’ expression darkened. “Oh, come now, do not be that way. It is only a name –,”

“And names have power,” he interrupted, then, realizing his mistake, added on, “my Lady.” Hattie sent him a sharp glance, but then softened her face into cool indifference.

“Names do have power,” she conceded. “Your family, whether they realize it or not, know that. Arthur, Arturus… William, Charles, Percival, Frederick, George, Rǫgnvaldr, Guinevere… It is a tradition, an old one at that, but a tradition nonetheless. It would make sense for the descendants of the Pendragon line to name their children after royalty, would it not?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said Arcturus. “They do not know, however, and…” He appeared troubled.

“They will not know,” assured Hattie, nodding. She turned away. “The public will soon learn of Euclid’s identity. Be sure to keep Quintessence in check. I will not have their existence revealed, despite this. Let them know.”

“Of course, my Lady,” he said, bowing. “It would not due for the plan to be ruined so far in…”

“Exactly,” said Hattie, turning away. “Now, take those _stater_. I have school to return to.”

Arcturus paused, looking to her with an expression unreadable, then bowed low. “Yes, my Lady,” he said. The cigar box was taken and slipped under his cloak. Arcturus backed away, then turned and left the room with one last nod to Hattie. All the while, Hattie continued gaze at the sole tapestry hung in the room.

The tapestry itself is finely-woven, threads interconnecting seamlessly. Only minor imperfections showed, and those only from age. Depicted across the drapery was a woman, with long, flowing red hair typical to those of Irish descent. A golden circlet inlaid with an emerald sat atop her tresses, and a scepter of similar make was grasped in her left hand, pressed to the ground on which she knelt.

Midnight blue robes pooled at her sides, falling into the patch of daffodils which surrounded her. Her head was bowed, unbridled grief marring her features. There was anger, too – a terrible malice which drove her to grip her scepter harshly and grit her teeth. Tears burned down her cheeks, landing on the petals of the daffodils, beneath which the deceased lay buried.

It was at her legs, however, that Hattie’s eyes fell.

Roots, gnarled and _familiar_ , crept along her thighs and wrapped around her shins. They ensnared her, trapped the woman in their vices, creeping under skin. There was no telling where the roots began and the woman ended, for they were one.

They were one, and Hattie _realized_.

* * *

“Hattie? What’s wrong?” asked Ron, standing by the DADA classroom door. His brows were furrowed and his hand rested on the doorway. Beside him, Hermione was looking impatient, but also curious. Hattie glanced to them from her seat, which she remained at.

“Professor Quirrell requested I stay behind,” she told them, her bag landing on the desk. Quills and parchment were careful stowed away, all at a leisurely pace. Hattie waved them off. “Go ahead. I may be a while.”

Hermione’s face pinched. “What could he want? This was our last class before Christmas break.” She gasped, clutching her bag closer. “Do you think he changed his mind about the homework?” At this, Hattie laughed lightly, shoulders shaking ever so minutely. It was such a Hermione thing to say.

“Merlin, I hope not,” said Ron, grimacing. “We have enough as it is, and I’m not looking forward to what Snape has to give us.” He shook his head.

“Professor Snape,” Hermione chastised. “Honestly, Ron,” she said, “How many times must I tell you? Refer to your superiors with respect.” Ron snorted loudly.

“Superior? Yea, superior bully is what he is. Come on, ‘Mione, let’s get outta here. We’ll see ya later, Hattie,” he said over his shoulder, tugging on Hermione’s robe sleeve. Hermione sighed, muttering something which sounded suspiciously like, _Oh, Ron._

A moment passed where Hattie sat in silence, the classroom devoid of occupants beside herself. The last class with Quirrell before the end of the semester, she thought. Then, as though called by her musings, Quirrell appeared from his office, looking quite ruffled.

“Miss P-Peverell,” he said, glancing about. Hattie flicked her wrist, her Elder wand falling into her grasp. She muttered the incantation under her breath, waved her wand, and then felt the privacy charm fall into place.

Smiling, with hooded eyes, she said, “I do not think anyone will be bothering us now.” Quirrell straightened his back at that, again casting a glance about, warier than he had been. His skittish demeanor fell away for his cold, true self. He nodded to her, finding no fault in her spell work.

“Come on, Miss Peverell. We’ll continue this in my office.” Quirrell’s fell on her, but Hattie did not feel threatened. No, his attempts to intimidate her were for naught. Hattie could have laughed at his feeble efforts.

“Of course,” she said, rising from her seat. With elegant movements, she moved past him and into the conjoined office, letting Quirrell shut the door behind her. If he locked and warded the room, she did not comment on it. Hattie settled herself into a chair, crossing her legs at the ankle. With her hands folded in her lap, she met Quirrell’s eyes. The man in question swallowed, turning away from her.

The turban was peeled away with painstaking movements. Burning red eyes met Hattie’s, and Voldemort’s lipless mouth curled into humorless smile. “Peverell,” he greeted, voice low and sibilant.

“Voldemort,” Hattie returned with a nod. She paused, head tilting ever so slightly. “I suppose you have come to a decision, then?” He did not answer, his expression morphing into utter blankness. “There is always that which lay hidden on the third-floor corridor,” Hattie told him, to which he did not react. Quirrell’s fingers, however, did twitch. She must have hit the nail on the head.

“My offer would benefit you far more, however…”

She wasn’t lying. Nothing – nobody else – would be able to fix his soul in the way she could. Hattie could grant him the body he craved, and the healing both his mind and soul needed. All for the small price of…

“How so?” said Voldemort, looking to her with suspicion. His eyes were narrowed, almost slits. “You do not know what remains in the third-floor corridor,” he stated, and it was true – she did not. “How can you vouch, then, that your offer is the better of the two? Or any other that I could seek out?”

“Because,” said Hattie, a delicate, cruel smile playing along her lips, “I can do so much for you. I am capable of mending your soul, unlike any other being on this plane. I can show you how to recreate your horcruxes so that they are flawless. The damage inflicted by them – I can heal it. Your mind, now in tatters, I can heal.” Hattie scanned his face, then continued, “I can create you a body. Any that you like, and it will be perfect. If you find any fault with it, then I redact my end of the deal.”

Voldemort laughed, soft and breathy, before meeting her eyes with a hard stare. “This deal benefits me far too greatly,” he told her. “I cannot, without due suspicion, accept this deal. What would you want in return, after all, for all that you promise? Riches, power, notoriety? Eternal life?” A sneer found its way onto his deformed face. “No, you want more than that. I will not accept your offer.”

A moment of silence, then: “You do realize,” said Hattie, “that you cannot operate on what mangled soul you have left... I will make you a body for a price.” She paused, allowing him to turn this over in his mind.

“And what would that be, Peverell?” asked Voldemort.

Hattie, with an unholy grin tugging at her blood red lips, her too-sharp teeth gleaming promisingly, told him.

 

 

 

“Why, your soul, of course. You will give it to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of my pre-written chapters. If the next installment is not posted on my usual schedule, then give me a week. If by the time a week is up, and I haven't been able to write the next few chapters, then I'll post a notice to the series. It'll probably be in the notes - something like "on hiatus" or something similar. I'm a bit behind due to both real life interrupting all my writing time and the fact that I have a bit of writer's block. I'll try to crank out the next installment though, hopefully within the time I usually post. 
> 
> A lot of the more recent chapters feel like they're not the quality I want them to be. After I finish the series, I'll probably rewrite these last few fics and add more to them. They feel... like they jump around, and that they're not nearly as long or as good as I want them to be. However, finishing this series is my first and foremost goal.


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